Black and White
by Vi Co
Summary: Hawkeye reflects on alcohol and on life before there was colour. Third chapter is a rework of the initial two.
1. Black and White

There comes a point between drunkenness and sobriety when I can't help but remember and can't manage to forget. It's then, at that moment, that I begin to see in black and white. It's only in that loss of colour that I can truly see clearly. It's in the loss of colour that I begin to see her again, my mother.

I can see her ebony hair cascading down over alabaster skin as she presses her white fingers to the piano keys, coaxing music from the silence. As she plays, her dark shadow floats across the snowy expanse of the wall behind her as she makes the black notes come dancing off the white page, making them come alive. This is how I remember her, in black and white.

And then the moment passes and the army green starts to press in on me again. So I take another drink in an attempt to keep away the colour. But inevitably I sink too far into the darkness that awaits me and lose the glimmer of white, that fragile memory I cling to.

But for that brief fleeting second, life is paused, captured as if in a photograph. There is no colour, no crimson blood to stain our hands, no red tide which we must hold back. There are no deeper meanings. There is only a study in contrasts black and white silence and song.

I know that they think I drink to forget, and in some ways they're right. I drink to forget the colour that surrounds me. But they don't really understand. I don't drink because I want to forget. I drink so that I remember. I drink to remember life back when it was simple and uncomplicated, life before there was colour. I drink to remember a time before black was death and before white was a lost inncence.


	2. Crimson

The alcohol makes me daring; it gives me courage. As it drains the colour from my memories, it draws my fingers toward ivory. But I can never touch it. I know that if I did, the spell would be broken. My hands were not made for black and white, as hers were. They have been stained red.

There was once a time when I too could coax music out of silence and beauty out of cold notes printed on a stark page. But then, in an instant, she was gone. Gone too was the black and white, her colours, replaced instead by colours that seemed too vivid.

It was not her absence that I noticed first, but the presence of colour. Someone placed a rose on the pristine row of black and white keys, the crimson petals intruding into the starkness. They thought it was a fitting tribute. But they intruded colour into what had once been ours. They silenced the melody that we had shared.

Even when the flower was no longer there, I could no longer see in black and white. When I looked down at my own slender white fingers, I could not see the contrasts that she had embodied. Never again would things be as simple as black and white.

For me, the contrast had forever become of life and death. Black and white had been interrupted by too much crimson.


	3. Reworked

There comes a point somewhere between drunkenness and sobriety when I can't quite seem to remember, but still can't help but forget. It's then, at that moment, that I begin to see in shades of black and white. Everything gets crisper, clearer, as the colour fades away, and I know that I am finally seeing truly. It's then, when all the colour is gone, that I can see her again – my mother.

I can see her ebony hair cascading down over her alabaster skin as she presses her slim, ivory fingers to the piano keys, coaxing music from the silence. As she plays, her dark shadow floats across the snowy expanse of the wall behind her as the black notes come dancing off the white page, making them come alive. This is how I remember her, in black and white. This is all I have of her.

And then the moment passes and the Army green starts to press in on me again. So I take another drink in an attempt to bleach away the colour, but I inevitably sink too far into the awaiting darkness. As I sink into it, I lose the last bits of white and along with them, the fragile memory that I cling to. But still, for that brief, fleeting second, life is paused, captured as though it were merely a photo. There is no colour. In that moment, there is no crimson blood spurting out to stain our white gowns. There is no red tide to hold back. There is no colour. There is only black and white, just like it was when I was with her. Only black and white, the two as different as silence and song.

I know they all think that I drink to forget. In some ways, they're right, and in any case, I don't bother to correct them. I do drink to forget, but they don't understand what it is I want to forget. I want to forget the colour. I drink so that I can remember the black and white, and when life was simple. I want to remember life before there was colour.

They say that newborns can only see in black and white. Then they begin to see reds. I believe them when they say that, but not because of their credentials or their studies. I believe them because the first colour that I can remember is crimson. Someone had placed a rose on the pristine row of black and white keys, thinking it was a fitting tribute to her, but the crimson petals were intruding into the starkness that we had shared. They coloured my world, making black more than just notes on a page, or the colour of her hair. They made it death. They made white more than just ivory keys or alabaster skin. It was a lost innocence.

I don't remember losing her. It was simply as though she'd vanished, stepped out into the garden and forgotten to come back. But there was colour everywhere. Our shared melody had been silenced and I could no longer see in black and white.

At tge same time as it washes away the colour, the alcohol makes me daring. It gives me courage and draws my fingers toward the ivory keys. But I can never bring myself to touch them. My hands were not made for black and white, like hers were. My hands have been stained red. They have seen too much crimson, and I can never quite seem to wash it away.

There was a time when I too could coax music out of silence and beauty out of cold notes printed on a stark page. But then, in an instant, she was gone, and with her were the black and white. They were her colours, and they were replaced by reds that still seem all too vivid. For me the contrast had forever become one of life and death, strung together by a crimson thread.

When I look down at my hands, I see my father's hands – surgeon's hands. I see strong, capable fingers that have the power to help stave off the blackness and save a life. I see hands that are covered in too much blood. But there is a moment, that moment when I see in black and white, rather than in colour, that I see her hands instead. I see slender, sensitive fingers that were made for ivory and ebony. I see hands that were made for music. But I look away quickly. My hands are not made for beauty, not like hers were.

The moment never lingers, perhaps because I push it away. I can't help but remember, but I want to do nothing but forget. I can't manage to forget, because I don't know that I can ever let go. My life may no longer be in black and white, but there was once a time when it was. My life may now be awash in bloody red, but once it was simple. Once I too lived in black and white. 


End file.
